


under her hands

by threadoflife



Series: femlock verse [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, And a well developed kink for John's arms, F/F, Female John Watson, Female Sherlock Holmes, Female Sherlock Holmes/Female John Watson, Femslash, Genderswap, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Sherlock Has a Military Kink, Sherlock is a nuisance until John sets the record straight, and John being strong, clits deserve love, or bent as it were, quite well developed indeed...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 15:23:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9554903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threadoflife/pseuds/threadoflife
Summary: To kill for Sherlock or to pleasure her--John is strong, physically and emotionally. Sometimes it is the former that makes Sherlock fairly invite her own ruin.Even if it means annoying John for three days straight.





	

**Author's Note:**

> polished version of this
> 
> http://wssh-watson.tumblr.com/post/156586716252/some-femlock-porn

John can pick Sherlock up.

Sherlock needles her so long—“oh, come now, John, I know you were in the army, but surely even you are aware of the fact that your inferior body height makes picking me up like a fainting princess rather a statistical improbability”—until John snaps and just does it.

Which is, of course, a wholly unplanned event. Sherlock is almost not prepared for it.

 _Almost_.

“You were saying?” John has hoisted her up in her arms precisely like a fainting princess: Sherlock’s knees bend over John’s forearm while her back is supported by John’s other arm. “Something about a fainting princess?”

“…Yes,” Sherlock answers, belatedly. She is blinking rapidly, staring straight ahead. The living room looks different from John’s arms. Bigger. For no reason at all, it makes Sherlock hook her arms around John’s neck. Not because it’s safer or anything, just... because. “I was—”

“—annoying an ex-military who went through years of intense strength training for specifically shoulders and arms,” John says, “for three days straight. Funny how I think this might be a bad idea, right?”

Despite herself, Sherlock glances up at John. She hardly looks fazed, doesn’t clench her jaw or breathe faster at all. Even all the red that should have been in her cheeks due to the effort is located elsewhere: in her lower lip, which, curiously, is redder than before. Redder and fuller, and Sherlock would even say lusher, but that is not what this is about.

Perspective does odd things, certainly.

“Next time I find the beans _accidentally_ on the topmost shelf again, there’ll be no dinner,” John continues. She’s still standing there with Sherlock in her arms like she’s discussing the weather while holding a feather in each hand. “That’s a promise.”

Sherlock snaps out of her reverie. “As if I care,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “You liar. You’ll find an alternative anyway. You always make me eat.”

“You’re insufferable,” John says. “So what’s the point of this, then? Why nag at me for three days straight to pick you up?”

Sherlock closes her eyes and sniffs. “No reason at all. Just wanted to prove improbability cancels out impossibility, even if statistics indicate—”

“Cut it out.” John’s voice is stern. For emphasis she gently jostles Sherlock in her arms. “What’s this about?”

Sherlock cuts it out and drops her gaze. In her socks, her traitorous toes wriggle in impatience, which makes her calves press back against John’s arm a little—John’s arm, who has not moved an inch or twitched or given in. It’s as if John isn’t carrying an additional 142 lb; underneath Sherlock’s body, her arms are strong, reliable, and stable, and they don’t shake at all.

John has picked her up like a loaf of bread and is carrying her as if she weighs nothing.

Sherlock swallows.

“… no reason at all.” Sherlock abruptly turns her head, presses her nose into her own upper arm. It isn’t quite hiding but it comes close. “It just.” She clears her throat; her voice sounds thick, much lower than usual. “I.”

Stuck on monosyllables, apparently, today.

She refuses to look at John.

At least ten seconds pass in that fashion: a silence in which aborted sentences and faces turned away could not ring louder while John is staring down at Sherlock and Sherlock is busy staring determinedly at her own upper arm, her object of sudden, intense fascination.

Through the rush of blood in her ears, Sherlock is mocking herself: _body’s betraying you. Catalogue the symptoms; John’s not stupid, she will know in an instant. Pathetic_. Her brain does the mental check automatically before she can stop it. Cheeks flushed an apple-red that is visible to John in the cheek not quite turned away from her; embarrassment or other emotional turmoil evident in the simple fact that Sherlock keeps facing the other way; toes in her socks wriggling madly indicative of... impatience, if Sherlock is lucky. Sherlock is mostly not lucky, and John is almost always right. It’s boring.

As if her shame isn’t enough already.

After some more seconds of this, John’s arms tighten underneath Sherlock, who feels John’s shoulders flex, the muscles work. As result the inside of her lower lip must suffer under her teeth. Then John says, “Yeah, all right,” and after securing her grip on Sherlock, she begins walking.

There is nothing to do but close her eyes. Sherlock knows where John is taking her.

John’s footsteps echo slightly in the kitchen, slow, deliberate steps. Each of them reverberates right in between Sherlock’s legs: unhurried, heavy pulses that throb through her, regular enough so she clenches her jaw against it.

They pause. John pushes her foot against the door, which opens with a slight creak. Sherlock’s fingers dig into John’s neck, but she doesn’t move otherwise. If she did, this would all be over. She’s as still as a statue in John’s arms, vibrating with the force of her desire. Only her breathing betrays her. It’s too light; too controlled.

“Hey.” John’s voice: suddenly close, the spoken word an exhalation against Sherlock’s ear. Warm. Intimate.

Despite herself, Sherlock’s eyes snap open. A shudder seizes her, trails over her entire body from head to toe with feathery fingertips, and Sherlock is grateful for her self-control: it shows only in the instinctual squeezing of her thighs.

John feels it, of course. She breathes out heavily through her nostrils, right into Sherlock’s ear. It cuts through the pounding of Sherlock’s heart—worryingly fast and noisy—in an instant.

On Sherlock’s shoulder, John’s fingers tighten.

“It’s all right,” John murmurs a moment later, after some of the tension has dissipated. “I’m here.”

Sherlock just nods once, jerkily.

John steps through the door.

In her fantasies, Sherlock has imagined it like this: John, furious with Sherlock’s incessant harassing, would throw her onto the bed like a sack of potatoes. John would crawl over her with glinting eyes and her mouth like a flat line, and she would cut such a dominating, impressive picture that Sherlock would not be able to do anything but grip John’s upper arms with her hands, which, despite being large enough to span the entirety of John’s arms, would be no match for John’s strength. At all.

John would prowl towards her like a barely restrained lioness; John would overpower her. Sherlock would be lying back, gladly allowing John to happen to her while she just held on. There was nothing else to do. John’s shoulders would flex, and Sherlock would feel all that incredible, tamed strength underneath her fingers, would have it above her in John’s compact, beautiful body.

All hers. All that strength, all hers.

It isn’t what happens now.

John’s gait is careful without being slow. It’s deliberate; it’s prolonged torture. In between Sherlock’s legs, arousal keeps pulsing with each step, cloying, tight, and dense. She thinks of treacle: of a thickness that does not give into heat but thrives in it, that concentrates further as the temperature climbs. Fittingly, her mouth is all but dry.

Her lower body is another affair entirely.

The mattress dips as John kneels on the bed. Terribly gently, she lays Sherlock down upon it, taking care to position her head on the pillow. When she’s done, she slides her arms out from underneath Sherlock.

The mattress stays sunken as John keeps kneeling. She has two chins, then, when she inclines her head to stare down at Sherlock. It should make her look ridiculous, but all it does is magnify Sherlock’s arousal. It swells within her besides a shy sense of sweetness until they fuse and Sherlock feels satiated like a swollen wineskin, ready to be pricked; ready to burst and spill apart.

John reaches out to touch a stray curl on Sherlock’s forehead. She curls it around her finger and keeps it tight between the knuckles of her index and middle finger.

Sherlock’s eyes are wide open, watching John raptly. Only her chest moves—a deep heaving, up and down—and the rest of her is motionless.

“You’re a manipulative git,” John murmurs. From her lips, it’s exasperated and fond. Maybe it’s also a little heated. She tugs at the strand of Sherlock’s hair. Oh, yes. Definitely heated. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”

Sherlock’s breath leaves her in a great, sudden surge. “Because you love me,” she says in a rush, words almost tripping over themselves. Her body is exceedingly hot: even the backs of her eyes seem to burn. “Don’t you?”

Denying Sherlock an answer, John instead lets her eyes dart all over Sherlock’s face as if she’s looking for something. Sherlock spends these precious seconds of stillness tracing the curve of John’s chins and ends up stuck on John’s oddly full lower lip. Sherlock is just imagining sinking her left incisor into it—imagines feeling the flesh give—and is startled when John suddenly moves: supporting herself on her left elbow to lean over Sherlock’s body, she straddles Sherlock’s right leg and bends down to bring their faces close, quite close. There is, if anything, a breath to part them.

“I what?” Gently, teasingly, John brushes the tip of her own nose down the bridge of Sherlock’s nose, then the side of it until their nostrils brush. She tilts her face a little and allows her lower lip to drag over Sherlock’s upper lip. Dry, their lips catch. With her free hand, John keeps Sherlock’s face in a tight, secure grip, thumb to her cheekbone, index finger on and knuckles under her jaw. “What do I do?”

“You love me,” Sherlock whispers. Her words are tangible, felt by John in the bump of Sherlock’s mouth against hers and in the jump of Sherlock’s throat against her knuckles. 

“Yes.”

“You love me.”

The breaths they share are hot and fast.

“Say it,” John murmurs. “Come on.”

“You love me, and you’re mine.”

Sherlock has barely finished speaking that John fists her hair and drags her head back through it, taking Sherlock’s mouth in a hungry kiss as she does. She swallows the last word and reaches for Sherlock’s left hand, settling it pointedly on her own shoulder, gripping Sherlock’s wrist as if to say: _keep it there. I want you to feel this._

Sherlock does. Her fingers curl around John’s upper arm, the tips digging into the muscle there tightly but reverently.

They do all this with their eyes wide open and on each other.

With Sherlock’s intense eyes right on hers, John parts her lips and drags the flat of her tongue over the inside of Sherlock’s lower lip where it becomes slick and warm instead of dry. At the same time, she slides her palm down Sherlock’s flat, quivering belly. Smoothing it over the curve of Sherlock’s hipbone, she slips easily and quickly underneath Sherlock’s loose pajama bottoms—

and feels Sherlock’s coarse, wild pubic hair against her fingertips without an additional barrier of fabric between.

John’s eyelids flutter the slightest bit.

Sherlock almost thinks she has a fair chance in staring John down, but then John’s index and middle finger dive right into the mess of her pubic hair, pushing the generous flesh of her outer labia part. Without preamble they wander further, and Sherlock’s inner lips part for her just like that, giving in under the slightest pressure. They peel apart like a ripe fruit under a knife: barely any pressure, all wetness.

Sherlock is dripping. The insides of her thighs are full with it, just like John’s knuckles. Damp— _wet_ —and warm.

 _Squelch._ John’s fingers move: the tips of them in tiny circles against Sherlock’s opening, as if in a massage or a reminder. _Remember this?_ One. _That’s what it feels like._ Two. _Me against you, right where you—_ three— _want it_ —and they dip inside, a quick plunge into an indescribable heat, a tight heat, where it’s still wetter, and— _squelch_ , Sherlock goes, loudly, in the stillness of the room otherwise broken only by the tight, fast breathing shared between their mouths.

Sherlock’s thighs shudder, and her eyes slide shut. She stares up at John from underneath suddenly heavy lashes, and her head feels equally as heavy, or maybe the muscles in her neck have just given in: her head tips, falls back into the pillow. Underneath John’s mouth, her lips go slack.

It makes John open her mouth wider, licking harder into Sherlock’s mouth, wilder. Eyes still wide open, she keeps Sherlock’s eyes arrested as she so sucks hard on Sherlock’s tongue that Sherlock’s fingernails dig into the flesh of her upper arm in response.

Good. John wants scratches to show for this, later.

Sherlock makes a high, wounded noise. John pulls back—their lips part with a wet smack—and after a last ungentle bite to Sherlock’s upper lip, she says, “Feel me,” and fastens her mouth to Sherlock’s neck.

She fucks Sherlock like this: with her index-, middle, and ring finger right up in Sherlock’s cunt, pulling out and pushing inside in fast, hard stabs producing noisy sucking, squirting sounds, while the pad of her thumb strokes slick, relentless circles right against the gorgeous nub of Sherlock’s clit, all puffed and enlarged for her.

Sherlock is holding viselike onto John’s upper arm, feeling the muscles shift and flex and tighten under her fingers and palm. This is John’s strength, under Sherlock’s hold. This is John’s strength, at Sherlock’s disposal: to kill for her or to pleasure her.

Sherlock’s other hand is clenched in John’s hair, tugging at it frantically. John bites at Sherlock’s neck in retaliation. Instinctually, Sherlock’s legs fall open even more.

The more desperately Sherlock mutters into the pillow—a manic rhythm of John’s name—and the more frequently her thighs tremble, the more stable John becomes. Her thumb moves a little more quickly but doesn’t lose any of its rhythmic, tight circling: it just goes a little faster, a little more urgently; it doesn’t tease the sweet spot just above Sherlock’s clit but goes for the goal, full frontal contact, the flat of John’s thumb on Sherlock’s nub, slick and nice, circle—

circle—

 _circle_ —

relentless and maddening until John bends to Sherlock’s chest, seeks her nipple underneath the shirt, and bites down.

On John’s upper arm, Sherlock’s hand clamps down at the same time her cunt squeezes around John’s fingers.

Over the rush of blood and her own harsh breathing, John is sure she can hear Sherlock choke, “Oh God,” into the pillow. Sherlock tugs at her hair again, and then, oh, _oh_ —Sherlock’s fingernails rake over John’s flesh, leaving behind four thin trails of fire that make John groan against Sherlock’s breast.

It’s four breaths later that Sherlock unceremoniously yanks John up by her hair—John hysterically wonders if she’ll have any hair left at the end of this—and kisses her without breath and more teeth than necessary. Letting John’s slightly numb upper arm go, she grabs John by her arse and pushes her down against her hipbone with a hungry sound.

John gets the hint and rubs herself off against Sherlock like that. With her shoulder still smarting and her fingers still soaked to the second knuckle, it’s quite easy.

After, John pulls Sherlock into her arms. Against her neck, Sherlock’s mouth smears words. “I love you,” she breathes. “I love you.”

John’s arms tighten around Sherlock, cherishing that fragility, cherishing her breathing, and keeping her safe and protected. This is John’s strength, under Sherlock’s hold. This is John’s strength, at Sherlock’s disposal: to kill for her or to pleasure her.

Most of the time, there is hardly a difference between the two.


End file.
